The Turn in the Point
by objectiveheartmuscle
Summary: They call him the Grave Digger. Children are taken from the road to be buried alive, carefully selected for their family's status and then drained of their blood once their ransoms are paid. When the wrong child is abducted, inter-agency cooperation finds Temperance Brennan and Seeley Booth unwillingly paired together in an effort to finally catch the Grave Digger.
1. Chapter 1

Hello!

This is technically a crossover with Vampire Academy, though I don't feel there's enough fandom fusion to warrant labeling it as a crossover. If that's not your thing, you're free to leave, though I'll hope you'll give it a chance! In a way, it's more like an extremely detailed AU.

The characters are all from Bones and have been adapted to fit the Vampire Academy (and its spin-off, Bloodlines) world à la "The End in the Beginning" (4x23, Bones). There are currently no plans to use any Vampire Academy characters or story lines, though references will be made on occasion.

And while yes, this story (and its planned sequels) take place in a world with vampires, neither of the main characters are outright vampires themselves. There will not be any visible blood drinking or any other kind of vampiric activity as it will largely take place in the background. The focus is on the characters and their relationships, not what (or who) they eat for breakfast.

Knowledge of either fandom is not necessary to enjoy this fic. As a long-time fan of both, I promise everything will be well explained when it's necessary for the story. The Vampire Academy mythos has been incorporated and will be explained throughout the story. (There won't be an exposition dump because exposition dumps are boring!) If you have any questions about the characters or the world-building, please do not hesitate to ask for clarification!

There are currently 20 planned chapters. This number may fluctuate as even the best laid plans have a tendency to go awry. My goal is to finish this, no matter how long it may take. Several chapters have already been written.

This story is an altered version of Bones canon circa season two, though references to things, people, and plots may be made up through season nine. Any season ten references will come with a spoiler warning at the beginning of the chapter if it has been less than a week since the referenced episode first aired. Vampire Academy canon picks up around »Silver Shadows«, Bloodlines #5, but only through heavy allusions. The events in this story take place concurrent to the latter half of the Bloodlines series.

Bones belongs to Hart Hanson, Stephen Nathan, and Kathy Reichs. Vampire Academy and associated works belong to Richelle Mead. The only thing I own are the words I wrote.

* * *

><p>"Finn, when's your birthday?"<p>

Momentarily frowning at his pile of paperwork, Finn Abernathy looked up and across his desk to see Jack Hodgins wildly grinning, leaned back in his chair with the kind of ease that said he didn't care if their boss caught him not working. "Why do you wanna know?"

If possible, the grin split wider. "No reason. C'mon, just tell me."

"September twelfth," Finn sighed. He gave his colleague a critical look. "Hodgins, am I gonna regret this?"

But Hodgins had already turned in his chair to face his computer, muttering Finn's birthday under his breath and clicking a few things that the younger man couldn't make out from where he sat. "September twelfth," Jack started, sitting back again while a satisfied air rolled off his shoulders. "That makes you a Virgo, my friend." He clicked something else again and he laughed. "Hey, Opie, listen to this. 'The prize you seek is within your grasp, dear Virgo. Remain clear-headed and all will be attainable. It will not, however, be what you are expecting — a significant other may bring a surprise to work or your boss may give you an extension on an upcoming project. Just remember to keep your eye on the ball and you will be rewarded.' Hey, that's pretty good."

"An' why are you lookin' up my horoscope?" Finn asked, eyebrows drawn together.

Hodgins shrugged, his smile softer. "One of Angie's fourth graders discovered them the other day, so it's all she's been hearing lately. They're pretty entertaining."

"What's entertaining?" an approaching voice asked from the opposite side of the room.

"Only the sublime, thirty-second pleasure of a vaguely worded Internet prediction about one's day," Hodgins offered. "And may I ask what your birthday is, Brennan?"

Any evidence of genuine curiosity on Temperance Brennan's face was instantly replaced with an unamused expression. She came to a stop in the walkway between Finn and Hodgins' desks, arms crossed over her chest. "This is work, Mr. Hodgins, not a playground. I expect you to be working while you are here."

"I am," Hodgins said, tone spiking with annoyance.

"Like updating your fantasy football league counts as work," another voice piped up behind the computer across from Finn's workstation.

Hodgins was about to argue when Brennan held a hand up. "Mr. Addy is right, Mr. Hodgins." (At this, Hodgins shot a mocking face at Zack Addy's computer.) "I need your report on the Tuesday night Penn Quarter incident in my hands by the end of the day."

"But it's three-thirty!" Hodgins complained.

"And it's Thursday. I really should have had it yesterday. An hour and half is plenty of time to get it done." Brennan fixed him with a hard stare. "Maybe your horoscope will enlighten you on the woes of procrastination."

Finn's nose was back in his stack of papers while clacking could be heard from Zack's general direction. Hodgins merely sank deeper in chair. Brennan's mouth twitched into something like a frown and her posture settled out. "I don't want to have to report you for incompetence and delay of an information share." Her voice was only noticeably softer to the people in her immediate vicinity. "Just get it done, Hodgins. I really detest extra paperwork."

Hodgins nodded. "Got it, boss. I'll have it done in an hour."

Mouth pursed, Brennan nodded and turned on her heel, giving Zack's shoulder a tap as she walked past towards her office. The boy followed immediately, both of them silent until her office door was closed. She really hated playing the bad guy.

* * *

><p>The gym was empty when Guardian Seeley Booth and Guardian Wendall Bray entered, muffled footsteps barely echoing off concrete walls and padded floors. Training equipment for the likes of boxing, martial arts, and gymnastics lined the walls; off to one side, stacked bleachers quietly stood, ropes and nets hanging from the ceiling in their place. Booth always pictured the cavernous room as like a renovated basketball court.<p>

(Now there was something the guardians could use. Too bad "budget cuts" meant they'd never get it.)

Still, for five-thirty, Booth expected to see at least a few other people, conditioning or getting ready for keeping up with a weekend of non-stop Royal partying. That was one of the many things Booth didn't miss about one-on-one assignments — tailing some spoiled, self-entitled brat in an effort to make sure they didn't wander off Court property and end up dead meat somewhere in the woods. At least Cam had been easy. Her head was screwed on tight and she had rarely, if ever, partied, though Booth was pretty sure a lot of that had to do with her non-Royal status. Still, he could've ended up in a much worse situation and he had plenty of friends who were currently living the nightmare.

"It's really empty," Wendell said out loud as they flipped on the overhead lights. "This is weird."

"You're telling me," Booth said, dropping his duffel bag on a chair near several racks of free weights.

"It's what, Thursday evening? Shouldn't there be people prepping for the weekend?"

Twisting his head awkwardly up from where he was momentarily stretching out his back, Booth made a face. "Yeah, probably. It's not your concern right now, though, so drop your bag and get over here and start stretching."

"God, this is going to look awful," Wendell moaned, reaching down for his toes and getting his fingers halfway down his shins before stopping. "Yep, this is bad. Even the warm-up laps outside did nothing for me."

Booth shook his head, slowly pulling his body up. "I'm not judging you. You're in remission from _cancer_. I'm here to help get you back in shape, not get on your case like you're some newbie novice who's been skipping gym since third grade."

Wendall made a noncommittal noise and shifted his feet apart, attempting to stretch farther. "The faster I get off desk duty, the happier I'll be, so I'm all for whatever you've got planned for me and my poor body." He fell silent for a moment. "I heard Parker visited last week."

Immediately, the last bits of tension in Booth's body dissipated. "Yeah. He's starting his training this year, so his mom let him fly out to watch the new guardian initiations. Y'know, get him pumped for what's to come."

"And he's graduating at sixteen?" Wendell asked, looking up from his stretch on the floor.

"Unless the Queen gets the age decree reversed which, y'know . . ." Booth trailed off, arm pulled against his chest to stretch out his shoulder. He switched arms.

"I'm sure he'll do fine," Wendell said in an effort to placate his friend. "You're his dad, that has to count for something."

Booth frowned. "I guess. I wasn't nearly ready to be a guardian at eighteen. Sixteen is unfathomable." He exhaled harshly through his nose. The thought of his kid going out there so young, trained to kill, always hit a nerve in Booth.

"Caps look like they're gonna have a good season," Wendell said after a few minutes in an effort to get Booth's mind off recent unfair politics they had no control over.

It worked. Booth snorted, shaking his head as he shook his arms and moved to drag out a punching bag. "They've had three games in the regular season. It doesn't even count. Now the Flyers, they're gonna have a great season."

"The Flyers haven't even played their second game!" Wendell argued back, face open and good-natured as he wrapped up his hands.

"Yeah, yeah, okay, keep talking, Bray. They play again in like an hour, so I'll let them work their magic. You'll see. It's gonna be a great game," Booth said, positioning the bag just so, water sloshing around in the stand's base for a moment. He shrugged. "I just have a feeling that it's gonna be a good year." And with that, he slid into business mode. "Alright, just start with basic punches. I'm looking for form, not power. You can hit as hard as you want, but if your form is off, you'll do more damage to yourself than your opponent."

Wendell swallowed the urge to roll his eyes. His cancer had been tough on the guardian corps as a whole, but Booth took it especially hard. He would let his mentor have his preachy moment if only because they were both there and alive to hear it.

It was a little intense throwing himself back into a training routine, but muscle memory served Wendell well. Most adjustments Booth made throughout the hour and half session were minor and his progress was better than expected. Maybe his dhampir genetics weren't working against him after all.

The pair were joking about an office rumor concerning another guardian's supposed affair with his charge when the door swung open, banging loudly against the wall.

"Guardian Julian," Wendell said, straightening immediately.

"I hate for the dramatics, boys, but I needed your attention," Caroline Julian explained as she crossed the distance between herself and the two men.

Booth shook his head. "It's fine. What's up?"

"Don't bother taking a shower. Both of you. You're needed down at headquarters right now," she said, face serious and tone deadly.

"Why?" Wendell asked as he and Booth shared a worried look. Caroline was tough by default, but something about her in that moment set the whole room on edge.

"It's _Clue_ time, Guardian Bray," Caroline explained. "The Grave Digger has struck again."

* * *

><p>"'The Grave Digger?' That's what they're calling this thing?" Brennan asked, scanning through the file.<p>

Her superior, Dr. Goodman, shrugged. "Interbreeding fosters stupidity. Personally, I'd rather call it like I see it."

"You mean a Strigoi who's created a sick game of kidnapping children and holding them for ransom only to never return them despite promises to do otherwise?" Zack offered from one of the seats in Brennan's office.

The combined resulting glare from Brennan and Dr. Goodman had Zack clenching his jaw shut tight. Brennan made a mental note to work with him on his inability to not interrupt with his opinions.

"Yes, that's exactly how I'd describe the situation," Dr. Goodman said, clearly displeased.

Brennan shifted her weight, still reading through the file. "This is a Moroi problem. Their guardians should be investigating this. I don't understand why we would be involved. There's no risk to humans. This person — Strigoi, whatever — is only going after Moroi children."

Dr. Goodman nodded. "Until they made the unfortunate mistake of kidnapping one of our own."

Brennan stopped, the color draining out of her face. "If we, as an organization, were any less rational, that would be grounds enough for us to declare war." She looked up, hands frozen and clutching the file tight. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she nodded and asked, "Who's child is it?"

"Stanton's."

Objectively, Brennan knew she was supposed to feel sorrow and remorse or maybe just some plain sympathy. She couldn't find it in herself to muster up the emotions, however, so she settled for tilting her head to the side and looked back down at the file. "How unfortunate. I take it she won't be part of the investigation?"

Dr. Goodman shook his head. "No. Higher-ups are insisting she be treated as an outside party to this matter. Her feelings would cloud her judgment."

Brennan frowned and once more flipped through the pages again as though the answers would pop out at her.

"Then why are you letting her see the file?" Zack asked.

The resulting look from Dr. Goodman would've withered plants.

"I'm getting put on the investigation team," Brennan postulaed, looking up and setting the file down.

"That would be partially correct," Dr. Goodman said. He held up a hand. "We're putting you in charge. You've had enough time since your last big case."

Brennan's eyes narrowed as she sat down. "But that would—"

"Make you the official Moroi liaison for the case, yes," Dr. Goodman agreed.

"Last time—"

"Won't happen again."

Brennan was unable to ignore the sudden chill in Dr. Goodman's voice. Last time she was tasked with a cooperative assignment, the lives of two Moroi and a guardian were nearly sacrificed. If she'd spent any longer on that assignment, America might have collapsed.

Cooperative assignments weren't really Temperance Brennan's thing. She preferred the solitude that usually came with Alchemist work. Disposing of bodies? Not a problem. Covering the tracks of new guardians who didn't know how to kill in the shadows? Easy. Convincing local police they were just hallucinating from one too many cups of coffee? Walk in the park.

Get along with a guardian for more than five minutes? She'd yet to see it happen.

"I know this isn't anyone's favorite job to do, but it's necessary." Dr. Goodman sighed. "We may be involved with their kind, but our humanity keeps us pure. We are the bridge between the Moroi and humanity. If this Grave Digger is beginning to go after us, it won't be much longer until the very people we're trying to protect start getting hurt, too."

"I really don't like vampires," Brennan muttered, glancing at the file.

"I concur. The blood thing is very unnatural," Zack agreed. That got a small, brief smile out of Brennan.

"I know this will be difficult for you, as it always is for any of us, but can I trust you'll be on your best behavior for this, Miss Brennan?" Dr. Goodman asked.

"Ms," she corrected automatically. 'Miss' always made her feel like a spinster and she still had some time left until her PhD was finished and her official title was 'Doctor'. Not that anyone could know. That kind of thing had to be approved and she knew it would never happen. Nobody wanted successful Alchemists pretending they could be something else.

"Ms Brennan, my apologies," Dr. Goodman amended.

She sighed and drummed her fingers against the manilla folder in front of her. "I'll do this, but I won't make any promises about my behavior. I will accordingly to the situation. It's not my fault if their skewed perception of the world tells them I'm rude or arrogant."

Dr. Goodman opened his mouth to argue that no, she would be cordial and even try for pleasantries when Zack cut him off, uncaring for the reply he might get.

"That's the best you're going to get from her," he said.

Brennan nodded absent-mindedly, picking up the file again with a new perspective.

"Well then," Dr. Goodman said, standing and reaching out to shake Brennan's hand. "There's a report on Tuesday night that's finally sitting on my desk that I must get through."

Brennan shot her boss's hand a look before sticking her nose back in the file, mind whirling away as she tried to slide mental puzzle pieces together.

Dr. Goodman said nothing as he nodded once more and left, unsure if he'd ever get used to his prickliest employee and her ability to freeze anyone out so long as she had a game to play.

* * *

><p>"What's her name?" Camille Saroyan asked, swirling her drink with a straw.<p>

"Temperance Brennan," Booth replied. It was her lunch break; they were waiting for food in a restaurant closer to the administration buildings where she spent her days advising and assisting the Queen in trying to run a nation from the tender age of nineteen. He was grateful for an hour away from what was becoming the biggest mess he'd had in a long time.

"Sounds like a mouthful," she noted.

Booth shook his head. "Perotta told me she's insane to work with. Last time the Alchemists sent her, Payton almost lost a hand. And they were only interviewing someone!"

She smiled, knowing exactly where this was going. "It sounds like you've got your work cut out for you."

"They think we're unnatural, Cam," Booth said, raising his eyebrows as if to help prove his point.

"So, as a collective, they think God tells them that their life work is to shield us from the human world. I can't imagine they all individually think that."

"But they do. Every single one of them. They're pretty much brainwashed from childhood to believe this stuff. Anyyway, you're a Moroi. You're not even supposed to know about the Alchemists," Booth said, trying to get himself to calm down. Was he really getting worked up over some delusional human already? He hadn't even met her and already she was making his blood pressure rise.

Cam shrugged. "I work for the Queen. I hear about lots of stuff I'm not supposed to know."

A harried Moroi appeared and dropped off their plates before dashing back to the kitchen, all in the blink of an eye. If Booth hadn't seen him nearly drop his burger off the plate, he would've sworn it was a ghost, w hich was dumb since those didn't exist.

"The Alchemists . . . they're a nightmare. Won't look you in the eye, they think their opinions and beliefs are better than yours, and I'm pretty sure they've never heard of the word compromise," Booth said. He stared at his food, annoyed. A burger and fries made it difficult to eat in a way that showed he was growing more pissed off about the situation by the second.

"Sounds like your kind of woman," Cam joked, spearing lettuce on her fork, much more mild-mannered than her lunch companion.

Booth merely looked at her. "I'm complaining about my new co-worker and you're bringing up Rebecca?"

"What? It was a joke." Cam took a sip of her drink, shaking her head. "Seeley, you need to relax. This will take three or four weeks, you'll get it solved, and you'll move on."

"Aside from the fact that we haven't had a single lead since the Grave Digger popped up almost a year ago, I might actually die by the time we solve this."

"Don't be so dramatic." Cam waved him off with her fork. "Seriously. At least meet her first before jumping to any conclusions about how fast you'll be driven to poking out your eyeballs with a dagger from frustration." She stopped. "You _are_ meeting her, right?"

"Yeah, in the morning," Booth said with a glance at his watch. "It's one at night for her right now. She's probably asleep."

Cam nodded. "I'm surprised they're not dragging her off the tarmac and into a conference room right now."

That got a laugh out of Booth. "They do seem like the type to do that."

"Go in there judgment-free, okay? Give it a chance before you write her off."

Maybe he could angrily stab his fries with a fork. But what kind of asshole did that? Fries were meant to be finger food. He relented and tried giving her a cowed look. "I will, Cam, I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

Brennan felt nothing but sloppily-hidden judgment from the guardian who made his way toward her across the busy diner. Which, given the early hour, did nothing to help her mood.

They'd agreed to meet at a location a few towns away from the Moroi Court; it was close enough that if emergency struck, he could be back in a relatively decent time and yet far away enough to let her feel like she wasn't walking into the lion's den.

He was tall with shoulders that seemed to go on for miles. His dark hair was loosely styled to look purposefully messy and his jeans rested on narrow hips. If he wasn't the genetic product of unnatural coupling, Brennan would think he was hot.

"Seeley Booth," she started as he sat down. They were in a back corner booth, mostly secluded from everyone else. Still, it was public enough that if she ended up punching him, someone would most likely see and call the police. Dr. Goodman would probably consider that _bad behavior_.

"Booth," he said, voice hard even though she hadn't done anything yet. "Just call me Booth."

"Brennan," she replied and he nodded and silence fell over them as she watched him watch her.

"So the Grave Digger," he started.

She made a strangled choking noise. "Don't you guys have a better name than that?"

"No," Booth replied, tone growing colder by the second. "Because we don't know who it is, so we don't have a name. Ergo, we use a nickname until we know the person's name."

"You don't look like the kind of person that knows how to use 'ergo' in a sentence correctly," Brennan blurted.

He stopped, offense written all over him. "I don't what?"

"Inbreeding fosters stupidity," she replied simply. "You look like the jock type who uses one syllable words to communicate with his peers."

"I don't even know where to start with that," he said, eyebrows creased together in horror and confusion.

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

_Any closer and they'll form a unibrow_, she noticed.

"You just said ten different insulting things in one breath," he said.

"I'm sorry you can't handle the truth." She arched one of her own brows as he floundered for words. Leaning forward, she spread her hands out across the table as she spoke again. "Let's look at the Moroi first. They're these supposedly peaceful, mortal vampires who only drink blood behind closed doors because their social norms dictate that it should be a private event. And then there's your kind, dhampirs, which are probably the most unnatural of all."

"Because we're the descendants of Moroi and humans mixing together," Booth finished, eyes narrow.

Brennan's disgust was evident.

"So you're saying I'm more unnatural than a Strigoi?" Booth asked.

"They're destructive and terrifying. They at least live up to the fact that they're evil creatures of the night." She reached for a menu and handed it to Booth. "Then again, you are, too."

"I am too what?" Booth ignored the menu.

"An evil creature of the night," Brennan said simply, reaching for the silver necklace clasped around her neck.

"Her expression didn't change as she watched Booth sputter for words. Eventually, he settled on stating the obvious. "You're serious about this."

"Yes," she said like he'd personally insulted her.

"Anything to drink dears?" a server asked, seemingly materializing by the booth.

"Coffee. Black," Booth said.

"The strongest tea you have," Brennan said.

"I'll be back," the server said, completely unaware of the building tension that, with the wrong word, could explode at any moment.

* * *

><p>"You gonna eat those?" Booth asked a little while later, pointing to her fries.<p>

She shook her head and pushed them away from her. "Be my guest." He thought they seemed at odds with the side salad she ended up mostly picking at when they first ordered their food, but he wasn't about to turn down free fries.

Since her initial conversation, Booth had yet to get much else out of her. He knew she was off to work after this. (Had she gotten non-breakfast food because it was dinnertime for him? Why did she care? Why did emhe/em care?) She occasionally reached for her necklace which, when he was able to catch glimpses of it, looked like the infinity symbol looped through a heart. (Part of him was intrigued by it, part of him wanted to know who got it for her.) If she weren't so insistent on insulting everything about him, he'd definitely be interested in her. (Oh who was he kidding? She was cold and heartless and he felt like he needed to know everything about her.)

He could've sworn he saw a glint of gold on her cheek, but he chalked it up to the rising sun and the many reflective surfaces in the diner.

"So the Grave Digger," Booth tried again, failing at ignoring how Brennan bristled at the name.

"A dhampir is kidnapping Royal Moroi children from rest stops off major highways throughout Pennsylvania, Maryland, and New York," Brennan rattled off. Booth wasn't sure if he was annoyed that she memorized the case. Show off. "The Alchemists are now involved because the four-year-old son of an Alchemist was taken at nineteen-thirty hundred hours from the I-81 northbound Exit 2 Kirkwood Welcome Center in Broome County, New York."

Booth paused mid-chew. "That's really specific, doc."

"I'm an Alchemist, not a doctor. Specifics are important to my job." Brennan set down her fork on top of her mostly untouched salad. "You'll find that with any Alchemist you work with."

"You're my first," Booth answered honestly. Her fist clenched on the tabletop, the only indication she was affected by his words.

"The human police have yet to learn of what's happening," she continued, "Because Moroi report their problems to you and the Alchemists report their problems to senior officials within our organization. The goal is to keep the human police out of this mess because that makes my job much more difficult."

"It makes my job harder, too," Booth pointed out.

Brennan tilted her head. "Yes, I would concur with that."

"So you agree."

Her head tilted the other way, this time more deeply. Her expression told him he was being an idiot. Irritation flashed through him. "That's what I said, Guardian Booth," she said slowly. She stayed silent for a few moments, studying him. He felt very much like he was on a slide under a microscope. "And, obviously, we need to find the children and the dhampir who's doing this."

"Why do you keep saying it's a dhampir?" Booth asked, leaning back.

"Moroi are too slow nor are they physically capable of carrying off a small child if the child decides to struggle against their captor. There's too much light for it to be a Strigoi. That leaves your kind. When you eliminate the impossible, what remains, no matter how improbable, is the truth," she explained.

_I'm dealing with a _Sherlock Holmes _fan. God help me._

Booth shook his head. "It's entirely possible that it's a Strigoi."

"Sunlight is harmful to Strigoi," Brennan said, annoyance barely concealed.

"During broad daylight, yes," Booth said. "But sunset? If he or she was wearing enough clothes, it would hurt but it wouldn't be impossible."

"It's too much work," Brennan replied, mouth twisting. "The chances are very slim. I don't like it. I prefer to work in facts, and the facts say that it's a dhampir."

"We don't have a whole lot of facts," Booth argued. "There are no eyewitnesses we can speak of who are probably all spread across the country at this point, no surviving victims to tell us what they remember, and very little evidence at the abduction scenes. We're working with scraps."

"Then I'll work with the scraps that can be proven. Like who was taken."

"Why else do you think it's a dhampir? Other than the physical stuff about it?" Booth felt his patience starting to run thin.

Brennan answered a little too quickly for Booth's liking, almost as if she'd been rehearsing her answers during her trip that morning. "It is common knowledge among the Alchemists that there are current political strains between the Moroi and the dhampirs. You have no real voice on your Council, which is made up of entirely Royal Moroi, yet they're the ones making official decisions about what happens to both dhampirs and guardians. Take the recent graduation law. Thirteen Royal Moroi decided to force all novice dhampirs to complete their training at sixteen before sending them off into the field where most will likely die before twenty because they aren't ready to fight against a Strigoi."

"I'm well aware of the age decree," Booth replied gruffly, thinking back to Parker again. She had a point. It was totally unfair.

"It makes sense, then, that the Grave Digger, as you insist on calling them, would be doing this as a form of protest against the Moroi."

Something still didn't sit right with Booth about her analysis. He couldn't explain it, but it seemed almost _too_ logical.

"I still think it's a Strigoi," he said.

"Why?"

He nearly slammed his cup of coffee back down on the table. She sounded like nothing he said was going to change his mind. _Why?_

"It's just a feeling, okay?" He was trying very hard to keep his tone even. "We never see these kids again. They're probably being drained of their blood."

"Feelings don't find kidnappers, Guardian Booth."

This time he really did let his hand slam against the table. People at the next table over gave him odd looks. The least she could do was drop the formalities like he asked her in the beginning. He focused on the table and forced a few deep breaths before going on.

"If this is how this investigation is going to go, you're going to have to actually, I dunno, _work with me here_, Brennan. So how about you get off the high horse you rode in on and start taking my ideas into consideration? Despite what you may think, I am a person with thoughts and feelings just as much as you are, though I very much doubt that you can feel anything but contempt for those of us you've deemed to be less worthy than you because our genetics are different."

He watched what little room he had close right up in Brennan's eyes and, if possible, her posture grew more rigid, her demeanor frostier. "We are partners on this case, Guardian Booth. Neither of us is getting reassigned. I am the head of East Coast Forensics for the Alchemists. I was told you're a top-level Guardian. We're too good at what we do to be allowed to leave this assignment." If disapproving looks could kill, Booth was already six feet under the ground.

"Being partners requires cooperation," Booth replied, equally as pissed off. "I bet you're not even going to show me your case file on this."

"I didn't bring it," Brennan said and there it was with the quickness. It would take a lot of convincing to prove everything she was saying wasn't completely rehearsed.

"Right, you didn't bring it," Booth said, throwing his half-eaten fry back at the plate and started to look around for their server and the cheque. "Of course you didn't."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Brennan snapped.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Booth echoed, mocking her before turning serious. "It means you're purposely being secretive because of whatever little Alchemist agenda you have going on. You and _your kind_ don't trust us, I get it. The least you could do is _help me_ because this is affecting my people more than it is yours.""Is that what you think?" Brennan asked, shut off from sharing any more niceties, what little of them she had to give from the start. "That this is affecting you more than us?"

"Last I checked, there were five Moroi children missing and only one human."

"Yes, that's a difference of four —"

Booth cut her off with a wave of his hand. "I can do the math, Brennan. Clearly you can't."

"What are you talking about? Of course I can do the math, I just did—"

He groaned loudly. "We're missing _four more_ children than you are, which means four more grieving families and four more reasons why this is a larger priority for us than it is for you."

"Your implications that we're not—"

"Implying? I'm flat out telling you—"

"Would you stop cutting me off!" she shouted.

Chatter within a five table radius of them fell short at Brennan's outburst. Not that Booth noticed. He was too busy focusing on how he'd gotten within inches of Brennan, both leaning forward across the table, frozen and furious. Up that close, he could see the blue and grey of her eyes swirling together like a hurricane trapped. A small shift towards her and his mouth would be against hers.

_Wait what?_

As suddenly as they noticed their proximity, they sprang back, plastered against their own sides of the booth.

Swallowing hard, Booth shook his head in a futile attempt to clear it. "We're heading back to the welcome center tomorrow. You're welcome to join us."

"Arrangements have already been made," Brennan replied stiffly yet somehow not as chilly as moments prior.

Silence. "What, no apology?"

"Me?" Brennan's jaw dropped and the storm in her eyes sprang back to life. "Shouldn't you be apologizing for being completely insufferable and unable to hold a proper conversation?"

"I'm completely insufferable?" Booth asked, laughing over his words in disbelief. "You walked in here, insulted my entire life and everyone in it, proceeded to act as though I knew nothing about this case when it's all I've been focusing on for the past eleven months, and then I have to apologize? No, not happening, Brennan."

"Then I'm not apologizing either. I wasn't the one cutting me off every time I tried to speak."

"You've dominated a lot of this conversation," Booth argued.

"I let you speak," Brennan retorted. (Was she being _sassy_ with him? Were Alchemists even _capable_ of that?) "I even let you finish your sentences!"

"You don't understand human emotion!" Booth fired back, going for the next argument he could think of because damnit, he wasn't going to let an Alchemist get the better of him and win this argument.

"You don't understand the importance of logic! You let your judgment be clouded by guessing and emotions!"

"At least I can relate with other people and don't live in my own self-absorbed world!" Fury that this woman was getting to him so easily was tainting every word that came out of his mouth.

"You're not even human!"

"You know what? Do 'your kind' a favor and grow a heart!"

"Then you should get a brain and maybe you'll catch the Grave Digger!"

"Cheque?"

The pair turned to the server, back to each other, and Booth sagged in defeat as Brennan shot out of the booth and to the front door.

"I'll be back," the server said with the least genuine smile Booth had seen in a long time.

He let his head drop to the table feeling like he'd just been put through the wringer several times over. Temperance Brennan was going to be the death of him.

* * *

><p>Brennan made it to her car and was a mile away before she had to pull over and let out a scream of frustration. She gripped her steering wheel until her knuckles whitened and then let go, along with the stress filling her being.<p>

Guardian Seeley Booth was just some idiot who couldn't distinguish the truth from his idea of reality. He was nothing over which to become agitated. He was a dhampir who would be pushed to the back of her memories once this mess was over.

She pulled back onto the empty Pennsylvania road, resolutely ignoring why that last thought made her ache with sadness.


	3. Chapter 3

"You look like crap."

Booth flicked a balled up scrap of paper at Lance Sweets across the table. "Good morning to you, too, Sweets."

"Just an observation," Sweets defended, holding up a hand. "And I'll say good morning, Booth, since I know it'll bother you if I don't."

"Yeah?" Booth started separating the small pile of case files out across the conference table, dropping them in a line with soft slaps against the wood.

Sweets nodded. "You're all about manners and doing the right thing. My not returning a meaningless greeting goes against social mores, which in turn makes you feel uncomfortable." He shrugged out of his uniform guardian jacket as he spoke, sounding too academic for Booth to handle so early in the day.

"Meaningless, huh?" Booth asked, curious about Sweets' word choice.

"It doesn't make sense to wish you a good morning when you're currently experiencing your morning and therefore have no control over how pleasant it is." Sweets made a face and gestured towards his eyes. "Plus you don't look so good."

"Well thanks, Sweets, but I'm fine," Booth snapped, not wanting to be reminded of how he hadn't slept longer than an hour, his mind plaguing him with an absolutely infuriating human every time he closed his eyes. He braced his fists against the table, leaning over to take in the six case files between him and Sweets. "Now can we get to work?"

"Sure," Sweets conceded, pulling in forward on his chair to focus. "So Caroline gave me clearance for this investigation to help you find a connection between the six victims?"

Booth nodded, pulling the reference photo from its paper clip holding from each file. He dropped the first one, a young blonde girl, in front of Sweets and continued with each one he introduced thereafter. "Stephanie Lazar, seven years old, taken from Harrisonville, Pennsylvania off I-76 eleven months ago; Joseph Badica, four years old, taken from Shrewsbury, Pennsylvania off I-83 seven months ago; Tina Conta, five years old, Bemus Point, New York off I-86 six months ago; Mia Ivashkov, six, Aberdeen, Maryland off I-95 three months ago; Lucas Dashkov, six, Matamoras, Pennsylvania off I-84 a month ago; and now Michael Stanton, five, taken from Kirkwood, New York off I-81 just forty-two hours ago."

Sweets' eyes swept over the collection of photos in front of him. "Interesting."

_Really? This kid was just going to give him _that_?_ "That's all you got? Can't you give me something else? You're always talking like you're inside people's heads. I pushed Caroline to add you to this case for a reason."

The look on Sweets' face was pure frustration and would've made Booth cower if his coworker was about ten years older. "It's psychology, Booth, not mind reading, and it happens to be a hobby of mine since I can't turn it into a real career."

They stopped for a moment, taking the air in. Neither of them had any control over where they ended up. Booth had long ago accepted his fate and he knew not everyone he worked with was as passionate as him. Being reminded of that always sent him for a loop.

"It's most likely a Strigoi," Sweets said, breaking the silence.

"Thank you!" Booth dropped into the seat across from Sweets.

"Why the happiness? This makes finding and dealing with the Grave Digger that much harder."

Booth shook his head. "The Alchemist they assigned me, Brennan, she thinks it's a rogue dhampir or something."

"Yeah, how's that going?" Sweets asked, leaning back.

"You know me, I don't work well with others. Lone wolf and all that." He paused and caught Sweets' satisfied look. "Hey, there's nothing going on between us. She's just . . . very frustrating," he settled on.

"I'm sure she is," Sweets said, unable to help the smirk on his face.

"Sweets, there are kids missing, kids who are possibly dead, and you want to talk about my love life?"

Shaking his head, Sweets kept smiling. "Just observing, Booth, that's all. Like how you haven't had a serious relationship since a very long time ago."

"Yeah, well, could you stop observing me and start observing this?" Booth snapped, gesturing harshly over the files and photos.

"Sorry." Sweets took a few moments to study the photos again before speaking. "As with most serial killings or abductions, the first and the last victims are not the important ones. It's someone in the middle. And, usually, the perpetrator is caught when they make a mistake." He tapped the photo of Michael Stanton, the human child, and flipped it around. "My guess is that he's not the last one. Whether he's a mistake or he's the prize, well, that remains to be seen."

Booth nodded and picked up the photo of Michael. "So there's going to be more."

"Definitely," Sweets agreed.

Booth set the photo back down in the line-up. "Anything on the Grave Digger?"

Pursing his lips, Sweets glanced over the open files. "I'm willing to posit they're a Strigoi. They're new, too. An old Strigoi has the experience to not be noticed, nor would they be so blatantly public about taking Moroi." He dragged a finger across the abduction dates. "I can't tell if these are accidental or not. I'll have to take a look at the numbers."

"Be my guest," Booth conceded. "I'm desperate. This case has had me running around in circles for a year."

"You miss being in the field?" Sweets asked with a knowing tone as he flipped through the first file.

"You have no idea," Booth complained, his back giving a phantom twinge of a past Strigoi attack gone wrong. "You hear they assigned my brother to Cam?"

Sweets' eyebrows shot upwards. "Jared? Guarding Cam? I thought he was attached to some non-royal in India? What'd you do to piss off Caroline?"

"I have no idea," Booth said. He looked down at Michael's file and then back up. "She hasn't complained about it, though, so I guess it'll be okay."

"Their personalities so don't match." Sweets paused, amusement filling his voice. "I'd give a lot of money to see their first fight."

Booth looked back down. "Anything else you can tell me?"

Sweets' face took on a wistful note. "I'm a guardian, Booth, as much as I wish otherwise. I'll need some time to look these over and check back against my books." He frowned. "I know you want to find these kids. A few hours isn't going to—"

"What, kill them?" Booth prompted darkly. "They're probably dead anyway."

"You don't know that," Sweets argued.

"Sweets," Booth said as though the other man was an idiot, "Strigoi take Moroi because they like the taste of Moroi blood the most. It's like stealing dark chocolate because you're usually stuck eating white chocolate."

"Hey, I like white chocolate," Sweets protested and at Booth's responding look, he added, "But yes, I see your point."

"I just want this to be over," Booth said quietly, thumbing the edge of the file in his grasp.

* * *

><p>So often Brennan avoided physical contact that she didn't know how to properly hug someone. Her best friend, Angela Montenegro, was the only exception and had been for a very long time.<p>

"Hey sweetie," Angela hummed and Brennan easily fell into her best friend's open arms. Her meeting with Booth left her open and raw with the nagging sensation that everything she knew to be true was about to get shaken up. Not that she believed in foreshadowing in life. It didn't happen so clean cut.

"Hi, Angela," Brennan replied with one last squeeze before pulling away, "And hello, Michael Joseph." She took her seat, waving a finger in front of the baby's face, brushing the tip of his nose and smiling at the peal of laughter it elicited.

"Someone's been very excited to see his Aunt Brennan," Angela said and shared a smile with Hodgins who was sitting across from his son.

"I highly doubt that, Angela," Brennan said, still fascinated with waving her hands in front of Michael's face and watching the resulting reactions. "An eight month old has barely mastered the ability to respond to their own names, let alone the name of someone they only see a few times a month." She was too engrossed with the small child to notice Angela open her mouth and Hodgins shake his head telling his wife to just let it go.

"So Hodgins tells me you two have a new work assignment?" Angela prompted as she began pulling food for Michael out of her baby bag.

"Yes, but you know I can't tell you anything about it," Brennan said, letting Michael grasp and suck on one of her fingers as she picked up a menu with her free hand.

"Yeah, yeah, super secret government job that I'd have to die to know anything about." Angela gave a conspiratorial smile a she opened a baggie of Cheerios and picked out a few, putting them on the napkin in front of Michael who promptly ignored them in favor of Brennan's fingers. "You can't tell me anything?"

"Brennan's partnered up for it," Hodgins offered, completely smug as Brennan scoffed.

"Ooh, I sense there's a story here," Angela said.

"It's a guy—" Hodgins started.

"This is good stuff," Angela interjected.

"—Who's apparently, and I quote, 'completely infuriating and impossible to work with'—"

"Even better."

"—And if his file is anything to go by, he's six-one of pure muscle—"

Angela pretending to fan herself as Brennan grew more indignant.

"—And knowing his type, he's a total alpha male—"

"Sounds like someone's type,"Angela teased.

"What is this proving, Hodgins?" Brennan cut in, trying (and failing) to suppress everything that Booth had stirred in her just twelve hours prior.

"I'm just giving Angie some mental images to work with," Hodgins said.

"Your faux innocence hasn't gone unnoticed," Brennan snapped.

"Someone's gotten under your skin," Angela noted, only half joking, and then tacked on, "Bren, honey, it's okay. We're just teasing you our new work partner sounds very handsome. I hope he can keep up with you or else all I'm gonna hear about it how impossible you are to work with."

Sighing, Brennan's gaze wandered back to Michael, who'd forgotten about her finger in favor of the small pieces of cut banana Angela had set down. _Michael._ He had the same name as Stanton's missing boy. She tried picturing this infant in front of her, a little older, snatched from a public restroom when no one was looking. Angela and Hodgins would be distraught with grief. Brennan couldn't imagine how she would feel. Emotions were messy, incalculable, but maybe . . . maybe, on a theoretical level, she knew she might be upset. This child was so young with so much potential, as cliché as it was, and had a whole life of learning to explore. Brennan felt a stab of something hit her in the chest as she thought about the six missing children, most likely dead or worse. She felt the sudden urge to be hugged.

Booth's face flashed across her mind for a moment and she pushed it away. (_What the hell was that?_)

"Brennan?"

Angela's voice brought her back and she loosened her death grip on the menu. That was unexpected.

"Sorry, just . . . lost in thought." She glanced at Hodgins, weighing how much she could tell Angela without her tattoo kicking in or superiors calling her in for a reinking. "It's just . . . this assignment, we're dealing with abducted children. I find it's more intense than I originally anticipated."

"Oh wow," Angela breathed, earlier merriment gone. "I can't even—I'm so sorry you have to deal with that."

"We'll be okay," Hodgins reassured his wife, grabbing and squeezing her hand.

"I couldn't imagine one of my kids being taken like that," Angela said, reaching out for Michael without thought. "Even the bratty fifth graders."

The trio fell into silence for a moment as Brennan struggled to think of a suitable change in conversation topic. Eventually she settled on asking how the aforementioned bratty fifth graders were doing.

"Oh, you know, they're ten and the oldest in the school, so they think they're invincible." Angela's smile was playfully wicked. "But they forget I can totally fail them since art is so subjective." At Hodgins' reproachful look, she added, "Not that I would. But it's fun to hold over them when they're not cooperating."

"Do you have a favorite class yet?" Brennan asked after their server dropped by to take their drink orders.

"The first graders are always my favorite because they're so young," Angela admitted, picking out some more Cheerios. "As much as I'm enjoying Michael Joseph now, I'm looking forward to when he's that age. Old enough to be more or less self-sufficient but still so precious and innocent." Michael took that as his cue to start blowing raspberries and Angela leaned over, making a similar noise and laughing, her hair falling in a curtain around mother and son.

Hodgins looked on his pure happiness.

Brennan ignored her pang of jealousy.

Angela moved back, face bright, and watched Michael as she spoke. "And one of my favorite second grade classes from last year is pretty intact this year, so I don't mind dealing with paint spills at eight in the morning."

After they put in their orders — soup and salad for Brennan, salmon for Hodgins, grilled chicken for Angela — the latter woman rested an elbow on the table and swirled the straw in her water. "So, going back to you and your hunkalicious new partner—"

"There's nothing to talk about," Brennan said quickly, intently focused on the arrangement of the napkin on her lap.

"Uh huh," Angela replied.

"I know that tone," Brennan said, looking up. "You don't believe me."

"Not a chance," Angela agreed.

Brennan shot a glare at Hodgins for having brought this up in the first place. "We had a breakfast meeting earlier today. It lasted forty-five minutes. All we did was fight. What more do you want to know?"

"What'd you fight about?" Angela asked the way middle schoolers asked about their friend's first kiss.

"Nothing of your business." Brennan made a face at her friend. "Mostly work things."

"So how long until you climb up his six feet and one inch of pure muscle?" Angela teased.

"There will be no climbing on anything related to him," Brennan spat. Next to her, Hodgins was trying his damndest to not give away his own discomfort with his boss's new work partner.

"_Okay_," Angela drawled. "So when you inevitably crawl into bed to get rid of all this pent up sexual tension, I'm just gonna cash in on all those _I-told-you-so_'s I've been saving up."

Brennan said nothing, face flushing out of her control, and she busied herself with checking her phone for non-existent messages.

Angela was grinning. "Hodgins, babe, let the record show that I'm calling this right here, right now."

Brennan could only tighten her hold on her phone, furiously wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole so she didn't have to deal with Angela's words of truth.


End file.
